


Questions for the Universe

by ladypimpernel



Category: Ghostbusters (2016), Ghostbusters - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I'm not sorry, Mad Scientist vibes, Multi, Other, Reader-Insert, Shameless Fan Service, nerds falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 18:05:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7517995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypimpernel/pseuds/ladypimpernel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long workday ends with a bike accident, a seemingly mad scientist who patches you up, and it opens the door for a very peculiar prospect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questions for the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> This is shameless fan service dedicated to those in the fandom who have fallen hard and fast for Jillian Holtzmann. I'm not even sorry. Excuse the rough edges. Any and all factual or editing errors are mine. I just hope you enjoy the fic.

It's your last customer of the day. The manager of the Chinese food place you're currently doing deliveries for has _promised_ you. You've been on with the courier service since 7 a.m.; approaching the nine hour end to your very long shift. You take the hefty brown paper bag with a sigh. The manager gives you a withering look. Carrying the bag out to your bike, you secure it snugly into the front basket before taking off.  
  
Traffic is a nightmare. Getting across Midtown during rush hour is a particularly special brand of Hell. Whoever – you pause for a moment to glance at the name faintly printed on the receipt in your hand – Abby Yates is, they'd better be an _excellent_ tipper.  
  
The distraction (albeit brief) is a mistake. A car has swerved onto the road in front of you, abruptly applying its breaks. You stop quickly, but the man on the motorized scooter behind you has other ideas. The scooter slams into your back tire just a _bit_ too fast. You're mostly stationary at this point, but it doesn't stop you from stumbling to the ground. Your elbow flies out, breaking your fall. Luckily, the food is mostly untouched. (You've learned the necessary tricks after a few irate customers in the early days of the job.) The only bodily injury you seem to have sustained is a sluggishly bleeding scrape on your savior of an elbow.

Shrugging off the mortified scooter driver, you remount your bike. Too much time has already been wasted on this...mishap. You're only about five minutes away from your destination, and the cut doesn't look too bad. You'll get in and out with the delivery; heading back to your apartment to clean yourself up in no time.  
  
But things don't go according to plan.

 

“What the fuck?” Arriving at your destination, you can't help the reaction. The delivery address you've been given is inside of _another_ _Chinese food restaurant_? Either someone taking the order made a glaring mistake, or this was one of the most unimaginative pranks you'd ever witnessed. Whatever the problem, you weren't in the mood. You secure your bike next to a small door on the side of the building and do your best to smooth over the small rips in the brown bag as you remove it from it's resting place.  
  
There's a bell beside the door. You ring it and wait...and wait. You can't resist an impatient huff, pulling out your cell phone to dial your customer. Suddenly, a woman with reddish hair and sharply cut bangs opens the door. 

“Oh, I'm so sorry about that!” She's mildly out of breath, looking sheepish. “Abby ordered, but she's on the phone with a client because our secretary wanders away sometimes and -” she cuts herself off, noticing your annoyed expression.  
  
“Come in, come in! Abby is, uh, upstairs. She has cash...to pay you.” She adds the last part of the statement in an afterthought.  
  
You follow the high-strung woman up the creaky staircase. The space opens up to a second floor, which starts out looking like your standard restaurant and spills into a landscape of what can only be described as the lab of a mad scientist.  
  
“Uhhh...” you hear the noise escape from your throat. You're the most out of your depth you've ever been – clutching a ripping brown bag, heavy with food, in a foyer overflowing with nonsensical bits and bobs.  
  
On one side of the room, a bespectacled woman with her hair swept into a ponytail is conversing, brokenly, on the phone. The woman who answered the door stands behind her, expectantly. So, this must be Abby Yates.  
  
“You're bleeding,” the voice is matter of fact. It comes from the direction of a worktable piled high with wires, tools, and the guts of machines no longer identifiable. You turn around, meeting the gaze of a woman wearing yellow tinted goggles pushed a top her forehead; hair quaffed messily to one side.  
  
“Oh...uh, yeah,” you shrug in an attempt to shake off any potential scrutiny you might receive. “Not a big deal.”  
  
This is wholly unexpected. Flying under the radar is never this hard. Customers are usually caught up in themselves. Rarely do you ever exchange more than ten words with them before you've handed off whatever you're delivering that particular day and they are closing the door behind you.  
  
The woman hums, face twisting; eyes narrowing. It brings out a dimple on the right side of her face. You couldn't help but notice.  
  
“You're not _supposed_ to be bleeding.” She walks away from her work space, settling a few steps away from you. You can feel a faint blush starting up your cheeks at the attention.  
  
“Holtzmann?” the redhead is beside you now, wearing a curious expression. The other woman – Holtzmann – glances pointedly at your injury.  
  
“First aid kit?” Holtzmann's tone doesn't match up with the awkward feeling in the room. Instead, it's oddly light and playful.  
  
“Oh...uh,” the other woman starts, “by the far window.” Holtzmann skips – no – _prances_ towards the designated area. “I'm Erin, by the way,” she introduces herself, bangs bobbing slightly. “Let me, um, take that for you.” Erin relieves you of the burden of the brown bag, leading you over to one of the booths tucked into the wall. It seems to be one of the few remnants of the building's original purpose.  
  
“I don't want to be any trouble,” you hear the words leave your mouth. You just want to get paid, end your workday, and enjoy a glasss of wine while soaking your aching body in a warm bath. You could definitely feel bruises starting to form from your unfortunate encounter.  
  
“Dr. Jillian Holtzmann, at your service,” the blonde announces, plunking herself down across from you in the booth with a quick wink.  
  
“You're a doctor?” The question escapes your lips in confusion.  
  
“Of Physics and Engineering,” Erin fills in.  
  
“Doesn't mean this can't be fixed.” Holtzmann is already dabbing at your elbow with an alcohol pad, and you try not to pull away the moment it begins to sting. Your body language betrays you. The woman tisks at your ever so slight recoil, quickly drying the wound with a smooth bit of gauze to take the edge off. She makes fluid work of securing a large bandage to the injured area. Then, for good measure, cleans up the excess blood that manages to seep around the edges of the dressing.  
  
“Good as new,” the blonde announces, packing up the first aid kit without another word and vacating the booth. You're left breathless. You can't even utter a single “thank you” in the moment.  
  
“She's like that,” Erin offers with a mild shrug.

Soon, Abby Yates is off the phone. You're finally paid for the order; the tip definitely worthwhile. You manage to make your way home. There is only one problem. You just can't get Dr. Jillian Holtzmann out of your head.  
  
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –  
  
A week goes by before you find yourself in front of that restaurant once again. No delivery call this time. It is pure curiosity that has driven you here. It is Dr. Jillian Holtzmann with her peculiar movements, unique dress sense, and strange usage of safety goggles (vintage, you think, after going down an online rabbit hole) which has you standing in front of the two story building.  
  
Your heart is pounding heavily as you reach out to ring the bell for the second floor. Before you can press it, the door flies open.  
  
“Come in,” Dr. Holtzmann is there, seemingly impatient.  
  
“Wh-okay,” you answer, chasing after her without a second thought as she practically runs up the stairs.  
  
“Were you watching me?” You have to ask. There's no way that it was fortunate timing which caused her to open the door at exactly the right moment.  
  
“Maaaaaaaybe,” her response is drawn out as she tinkers with whatever monstrosity happens to be gracing her workbench.  
  
“ _Why_ were you watching me?” The brand of fear you were experiencing before is slowly being replaced with another.  
  
“Do you know what we _do here_?” Her tone is almost accusatory. Anxiety blooms in your chest. You shouldn't have come. You should go.  
  
“N-not exactly. I-uh-just make deliveries and don't ask many questions.”  
  
“Except when you're making a Chinese food delivery for a business based above a _Chinese food restaurant_ ,” the fact emerges, succinctly, from her mouth. The statement catches you off guard.  
  
“Yeah, actually. I did wonder that.” You take a long breath for what seems like the first time in several minutes. The conversation has gone decidedly topsy-turvy, but the feeling of nervousness is melting into the background.  
  
“Abby's on strike,” Holtzmann supplies. “She's protesting the Wonton soup. Has to get it somewhere else.” It sounds so _normal_ coming out of her mouth, but it's not. Not in the slightest bit.  
  
“Oh.” That's all you can bring yourself to say. Silence falls between you, a soft whirring in the background fills the void. “I should go.” You turn tail, deflated. Then, you stop. Your curiosity gets the best of you. 

“Why did you help me?” The way you ask the question implies vulnerability. You cringe, thinking that there had to be a better way to have phrased it.  
  
The tinkering noises stop.  
  
“I fix things,” she walks over to you, and with no warning, lays a hand on your healing elbow. She lifts the appendage up, examining it. “It was broken, and I fixed it.”  
  
You look down at her, eyes meeting.  
  
“Well, uh, thank you. I came here to say thanks...so thanks.”  
  
“You're welcome,” she gives you a toothy smile, dropping your elbow. You want to run then – far from here. You're getting closer to saying something you'll surely regret.  
  
“I-I was wondering-”  
  
“Number's on the desk,” she cuts you off, not looking up. You approach the reception area. There are seven, perfect digits written messily on a torn piece of paper.  
  
“I'm busy every other Monday, the fourth Tuesday of each month, and the sixteenth Friday of every year divisible by two. Any other day, try your luck.”  
  
She continues tinkering as you leave, and you see her smile faintly.  
  
Never in your life did the prospect of a first date seem so exciting. Dr. Jillian Holtzmann would be a most interesting pursuit, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr as [pimpernelpages](http://www.pimpernelpages.tumblr.com) to shout about this fandom (and many more).


End file.
